


mellifluous

by boleynqueens



Series: tumblr prompts [5]
Category: 16th Century CE RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Modern Era, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 02:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7341214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt #11: things you said when you were drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mellifluous

**Author's Note:**

> this prompt, asked by silly-little-dancer on tumblr: 11.) things you said when you were drunk.
> 
> from this prompt meme: http://boleynqueens.tumblr.com/post/146633294157/prompts-1-things-you-said-at-1-am-2-things
> 
> whitehall-compliant, ish, takes place before this fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7193351

Anne sits next to Henry on the couch, dressed in her favorite pajamas and slippers: the silver, satin ones, covered in a pattern of stars, matching the satin material on her feet. Her hair spills around her shoulders in ridged waves, an effect of the braid it was in all night before she freed it.

They had arrived to their apartment together about twenty minutes or so ago, back from Lizzy Blount's birthday party, changed in separate rooms.

He's wearing gym shorts, and a faded grey jersey, the number 91 on the front of it. The material of the shirt hangs, loosely, from his sides, but lies flat against the hardness of his stomach.

Something's playing on the television that he's watching, but she's not really paying attention. Her thoughts are fluid, _mellifluous_ , even, and she feels loose and tingly (and the party was at a bar that doesn't card), so it's all one single thought, really, as she leans in to nuzzle his neck: _he looks really good and his face smells like soap and his neck smells like soap I think it's Irish spring I've seen the box before and also cinnamon which is probably guy deodorant it usually is._

"What are you watching?" Anne murmurs, lying her head against his shoulder, and he leans down to kiss the top of her head and _that feels nice_.

"Documentary on castles. It was on Netflix."

"Mm. How _interesting_ ," she says, eyes cast downward, "I thought the number on jerseys was supposed to be on the back."

"It's…" Henry trails off, with a sharp exhale, as she grazes his earlobe in between her teeth before kissing the skin behind it, "on both, sometimes. The front and back."

"I see. Your lips are chapped."

"Oh," he says, pursing them, "well, that's fine--"

" _I_ ," Anne says, sitting back down against the couch and putting a hand on her chest, "am wearing lip gloss."

"That's…nice, Anne, I--"

"It's _very_ nice, I bought it yesterday. It's tangerine. Here, let me show you," she says, getting up, she rests both of her knees over his thighs and sits, straddling him before leaning down to kiss him.

She kisses him hungrily, fingers interlocked in his hair, and he kisses back gently, chastely, his mouth closed. Henry applies barely any pressure at all, as if he understands her hunger but doesn't want to hear it and _how is he not getting this_?

"We," Anne whispers as she grinds her core against his lap (her heartbeat flutters as she thinks, _one two three four layers between them_ , that's all, _one two three four_ and _the relief of the throbbing pressure_ between her legs _could be better, so much better, should be better, why not?_ ) forehead resting against his, "should have sex."

" _Anne_ ," he says, softly, eyes large, pupils dilated ( _and that's supposed to be a good sign_ , she thinks, panicked as she realizes she felt no hardness as she pressed tight against him) within the equally soft grey and blue of them, he trails the back of his hand against her cheek, "you _know_ why we--"

"We haven't, yet," she says, trying to unbutton one of the pearly buttons on her shirt (it won't go _through_ , though, _for some reason_ , she struggles with it and then gives up).

"I'm aware," he says, with a low chuckle, then, grabs her waist and eases her off his lap, carefully but quickly. She blinks, finds herself is sitting on her knees on the couch cushion to the right of him. She rearranges her legs, sits cross-legged, facing him, embarrassment warming her cheeks.

The rejection manifests as she feels a sting in her throat, a sting that doesn't go down when she swallows around it. Her eyes sting as well, and her chest tightens. As her back rests against the armrest his head is ducked down, he picks at a cuticle of a calloused thumb, lashes lowered, not looking at her.

  _What just happened_ , is what she thinks as she blurts out, "You don't…want to?"

Her voice cracks on the 'want' and he turns to face her and looks up when it does, brow furrowed, his eyes widen after his gaze sweeps over her face.

"Oh, no, sweetheart," Henry whispers, takes both of her hands in his, traces the same bitten thumb over them, "of _course_ I do. Just…not like this."

"Not like what?" Anne asks, confused, notices dampness on her cheeks and realizes she's been crying (she doesn't know when she started).

"When you're sober," he clarifies, kissing her hands, before letting them go.

"I'm…the _most_ sober," she scoffs, turning to the TV screen and crossing her arms.

It's muted, the narrator's mouth moving soundlessly as he walks the length of a maze of roses and she thinks, vaguely, that she'd like to go there someday.

"You had three margaritas and you weigh 105 pounds soaking wet, you are definitely--"

Anne bursts into boisterous laughter that fades into giggles, leans her back flat against the couch, pulling her knees to her chest.

"What?"

"You said…' _wet'_ ," she titters, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Oh, my _God_ ," he groans, puts his face in his hands and laughs, "I cannot believe you think that's…funny, _Jesus._ "

"You _did_. Also you're not as Catholic as you _think_ you are, you just Lord-vained-named…twice."

"You're plastered. You should sleep it off," he says, extending a hand, and she takes it, rolling her eyes, "come on."

" _You_ should sleep it off," she says, sulkily, as he helps her up from the couch, catches her when she stumbles a little.

"I will," Henry says, shaking his head, "later."

"You drank, too, you know."

"I had a _beer_."

"Mmm," she mumbles, as he walks her to the bedroom, "exactly."

* * *

"I'm six feet tall and have at least sixty pounds on you. It's not _quite_ as affecting," he quips, opening the door with his other hand.

" _Whatever_ ," Anne says, waving a hand at him as she walks over to their bed. She pulls back the covers and then settles in, rolling over on her side.

Henry kneels next her on the right side of the bed, brushes her hair off of her forehead before kissing it. Looks at her, eyelashes inky and silky like gossamer, cheeks rosy from alcohol, her mouth opening in a yawn, long-fingered hands clasped around the comforter, pulling it up to her chin.

"Good night, sweetheart," he whispers ( _you're lovely, so lovely, I hope you know that_ ).

"Whatever."

He tries not to take that personally. Gets up from the floor, stands, and leaves, gently shutting the door behind him.


End file.
